The Vigil
by rinda.fullmoon
Summary: "Gwen was the last to leave him, and he waited for her until the very end." At the Queen's deathbed, Merlin relives a lifetime of goodbyes. Post-Camlann.
1. Gwen (Prologue)

**Yet another tragic Merlin fangirl reduced to a state of emotional train-wreckery by the finale. Can't believe Merlin is left to wait for eternity, all on his own *clutches heart*  
****Anywho, this is my slightly angsty take on the events after Camlann.**

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Gwen was the last to leave him, and he waited for her until the very end.

He sat a lonely vigil by her bedside, high in the south tower of Camelot's great stone keep. The room was stifling in the ruddy heat of the fire, tall, stained windows shut tight so that the air grew hot and shimmered like the warm belly of an oven. Sickly sweet smoke hung in heavy white curtains, clinging softy to Merlin's skin, caressing his senses and willing him to succumb to their heady vapour. The fumes would numb her pain so that she might pass obliviously to the other side, but no such relief came to the warlock. Grunting, he tried to clear his throat of the opiate-smoke once more, with little effect. It was more of a habit now than a conscious effort; smoke, like the straws of fate, would go where it liked. A simple spell shielded his mind from the worst of the drug and kept his thoughts relatively lucid, but three days and three nights confined to the sleepless, deathly chamber were beginning to take their toll.

The Royal bedchamber was draped entirely in black, and Merlin hated it. Black was too much like death. Black was darkness, night and the end of all hope. The time for hope had long passed for Gwen, but still the sorcerer cultivated the urge to tear down the hangings that pressed in on them, blanketing him in a mood as dark and brooding as the cloth itself. Every ray of light was swallowed in the gloom, diminishing the candles to dim, wavering stars in an endless night sky, the fire a dying moon.

Even the Queen of Light herself was nearly swallowed. She lay alone in the Royal bed, as she had through all the long years since Camlann, steadfast in the solitude that had become her shield. Yet, she had refused to let loneliness consume her, and out of a widow's black had risen a woman of loyalty, justice and steel. She had taken up her husband's mantle almost without pausing to grieve, building the Camelot they had both envisaged upon the foundations he had forged. Yet, Time, the great destroyer, had stolen her strength and left her broken body to rot in the confines of the soft feather bed. Breath that had once raised armies now wheezed and bubbled wetly through tired lungs, the only sound to break the stifling silence of the black tomb.

Were it not for the tortured rattle of each agonising breath, Merlin could almost have imagined she was only sleeping, or already at peace. Swathed in a heavily embroidered gown of rich, white silk, her shrunken body lay entirely still, ensconced in a battlement of pillows, hands folded gently upon her breast. Silver hair rippled over her shoulders in shining waves to spread into a soft sea around her elbows. Her tender round face, once heralded for its beauty, was now furrowed and wrinkled with age. Delicate crow's feet branched from closed eyelids that fluttered restlessly over kind brown eyes, blinded to the world. Never again would they smile at Merlin, compassion and wisdom swimming in their earthy depths. Age might have ravaged her body, but her eyes had always sparkled with a youth and vitality that startled him.

Of all the things his life had become, nothing reminded him more of Gaius' than Gwen's eyes.

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**Yes, it's short, please don't be disappointed! Next part will be uploaded very soon :) I almost posted this fic as a one-shot but decided it would be way too ridiculously long that way...**


	2. Gaius

**Please enjoy! I'd love to hear what you think :)**

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His old guardian was always as good as his word, even after so long.

The sun was low in the sky when Merlin finally returned to Camelot, dragging his feet as if his shoes were filled with lead. As if to mock the warlock's gloom, the dusty streets glowed with a golden radiance as carts and people trundled along, closing up the day's business with a yawn and a laugh. The castle proper grew gracefully out of the centre of the town like a burnished rose, blushing pink in the fading daylight. After all that had happened, the solemn and familiar beauty of the city brought tears to Merlin's eyes. With a weary sigh, he reached up and rapped clumsily on the rickety wooden door of the physician's chambers.  
"Come!" was the customary reply.

Taking a moment to arrange his features into something resembling a smile, Merlin put his weight against the creaky door and swung into the workshop. Déja-vu smacked into him like a whirling storm, almost taking his breath away. The room still stood in the same steadfast state of disarray he had left it in, radiating squalor and life as if nothing had ever happened. It even smelled like the past; the sweet and musty odour of a thousand different herbs and poultices. Merlin half-expected Arthur to come marching in behind him, banging loudly on the door and demanding to see his manservant. But of course, even if Gaius's room had withstood change, the world the warlock had known and loved was a very different place.

"Merlin!" cried the physician, standing abruptly from his habitually cluttered bench and striding eagerly towards his ward. As ever, his lined and sagging face was fixed in a welcoming grin, warm as the afternoon sun which streamed through the cloudy windows. "I was starting to wonder when you would arrive, my boy." He added gently, pulling him into a brusque embrace.

"Gaius," Merlin replied over his shoulder, fighting the wet lump that rose and ballooned in his throat.

"Come now," said the old man, releasing him with a half-worried look and patting him affectionately on the collarbone. With a mischievous wink, Gaius turned away and shuffled towards the dining table where his evening meal appeared to be set, enshrouded and hidden from view by a blue, calico cloth. "I promised you I'd have your favourite meal waiting when you returned, and you're yet to make a liar of me."

Flourishing the table cover, he swept it aside to reveal two roughly-hewn, wooden plates, set neatly alongside a roasted chicken that glowed golden-brown in the warm, coppery light. He turned expectantly back to Merlin, eyes twinkling, and nodded at the table.

Merlin gaped silently at his mentor, his face breaking open into his first true smile since he had arrived on the desperate shores of Avalon, all those weeks ago. A weak, wavering and tear-stained grin, admittedly, but a true one all the same. It was both unnatural and relieving at the same time, like cracking open the spine of a new book. Momentarily disconcerted by the sensation, he let it fall.

Merlin moved instinctively to sit in his usual seat, his mind slipping easily into old habits. But something made him stop, almost in mid-stride. "Gaius," he began, incredulous, "it's been over a month…. How did you…?"

The old man chuckled deeply and knowingly under his breath; a short, sharp gurgle of mirth. "Hunith sent word," he explained matter-of-factly. "Did you think I'd learned to read minds, Merlin?"

Merlin nodded curtly and pursed his lips in frustration at the mention of his mother, taking his seat in silence. Gaius watched him calculatingly over the top of his spectacles as the warlock threw up walls of bristling indignation. Catching the younger man's eye, he cocked a wiry eyebrow and was met with a stone-faced glare that dared him to continue.

Gaius was not one to be intimidated by his pupil. "She was right to send you back here, you know," he declared sagely, ignoring Merlin's belligerent glare.

"Was she?" snapped the warlock maliciously, chewing the words and spitting them out with a ferocity that almost surprised even him. "What for, Gaius?" he demanded, voice rising with aggression. "Is there another grand fate that awaits me? Is there someone else I need to bend over backwards to protect? Arthur's gone! My destiny has been fulfilled, apparently! Or maybe I've just failed- _but don't worry, Merlin, the Once and Future King will be back, you just hold tight and twiddle your thumbs_," Merlin was on his feet now, flecks of gold spinning dangerously in his eyes. Whether they were from the touch of magic or simply a trick of the light, Gaius could not be certain. "So now I'm supposed to just sit around until he returns. And who knows when that will be? I could be here for a thousand years before I find him, Gaius!" Without warning, the wooden plate went skidding across the floor to crash against the wall with a dismal clatter. "I don't have a purpose, anymore, except to wait for him. So what use am I here? What use am I anywhere? " Despair cracked in his voice and Merlin drew a shuddering breath, running his hands viciously through his hair. With a snarl, he kicked the leg of the table, making the crockery jump as if it had been startled. Hissing in pain and frustration, Merlin stalked away to lean against a door-frame, head bowed to rest in the crook of his elbow. Half-breaths, half-sobs caught in his chest, making his shoulders rise and fall in a shallow, uneven rhythm.

Gaius calmly rode out Merlin's storming tirade, hands steepled under his chin and brow creased with concern, with just a dash of dissent. "Merlin," he began soothingly, "that's not true, and you know it. You do have a purpose... at least for the time being."

"What?" the sorcerer snapped, spinning to face his mentor, chin jutting in defiance.

"The future of Camelot is far from settled, my dear boy. You may have lost a friend, but the kingdom has lost her king. With a young queen newly ascended, there are uncertain times ahead, you mark my words. I don't doubt for a second that Gwen will make a strong and just ruler, but there will still be those that wish her ill; her allies must be kept close and counted preciously."

Merlin sighed and leaned his back against the door frame, letting his head fall back against the wood with a dull thump. He crossed his arms snugly across his chest, and looked, unreadably, down his long nose to where Gaius sat.

"When the embargo on magic is lifted, having you at her side will be essential if we are to see a peaceful return of sorcery to the land. After over twenty years of distrust and war, convincing the people that magic is not evil is going to be no easy task." He paused once again while the warlock took in his reasoning, brooding silently. "But if anyone is up to it, it's you, Merlin." Gaius rocked back in his seat and lifted his chin in query, fixing his eyes on his ward's carefully neutral expression. "What do you say?"

Merlin ground his teeth and paced back to the dining table, leaning the palms of his hands on the back of his chair. He stood for a moment, gazing at the floor as the last, feeble rays of sunlight winked over the dusty windowsill. "I'll stay," he declared finally, with sigh of resignation, "for Gwen's sake."

Gaius beamed at him. "I'm glad," he said proudly, though by the glint in his eye Merlin suspected that he had known what his answer would be all along. "Now sit down and eat your dinner, we'll go to the queen in the morning."

Surveying his mentor's twinkling eyes in the fading dusk, the young warlock was struck forcibly by the man's irrepressible optimism. It seemed to Merlin in that moment that Gaius would go on forever, always expecting the best of tomorrow.

But of course, one autumn morning, tomorrow never came. Merlin had woken to find the old man cold in his bedsheets. Gone, silently in the night. The emptiness was oppressive. When he had imagined Gaius' death, Merlin had always thought to weep for the loss of his friend and advisor, the one man he had dared to trust wholeheartedly. But the tears never came. After so much loss, all Merlin could feel was a hollow ache and a numb acceptance of the truth. He began to wonder if he had dried up like an old well, if his heart had been broken so many times that it no longer hurt.

He was wrong. His sorrow would return with the first snow of the winter.

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**That's right~~ winter is coming! :P **


	3. Hunith

**Well this took longer than expected... been trying this new thing called "University"  
Please R&R! **

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It took him a week to find his way to her.

He stumbled into her arms, exhausted and dirty, face salted with tears that wouldn't dry. His lungs retched with renewed grief as she clasped his head to her shoulder, stroking his back and softly hushing in his ear. Her love was soothing, but it only served to remind Merlin of the last person he had held in his arms. Fatigue and grief claimed him and a primal howl of pain whined past his lips. He collapsed into the dirt, dragging his mother with him to her knees.

Gathering her son to her chest, Hunith rocked him gently in the dirt, worry and sadness flowing over her like a flood and soaking through every line on her face. She ignored the passers-by who were beginning to gather curiously in the street, or maybe she simply did not notice them. Her rough woollen skirts quickly became covered in dust and his tears were beginning to drench her plain pink blouse, but she paid them no mind. What is vanity to a mother when her child is in pain? Swallowing her own despair, she kissed the top of Merlin's head and combed her fingers slowly through his hair, just like she used to when he was a boy. Yet still his tears flowed like blood from an open wound. There was a crowd now, or as much a crowd as sleepy little Ealdor could muster. They muttered and murmured like an uneasy wind, radiating concern and interest but reluctant to intrude. So they simply watched while a grown man crumbled, desperately grasping for a childhood comfort, only to find that that his mother's embrace that could no longer make everything alright. No-one moved until a wagon, laden with hay trundled towards the frozen scene.

"'Scuse me missus," he called down tentatively, resting his whip over the sturdy rumps of the oxen, "D'you mind shifting? I've to get this load to Feorman by sundown."

Hunith looked up at him blankly, and then back down at the top of Merlin's dark hair, his face still curled into her chest and his heavy body draped around her in a tangled mess. Not a word was said, but the message was plain. And as if her plea was a catalyst, Big Ron the blacksmith roused himself from the collective stillness of the villagers and squeezed his way out of the throng. Striding briskly towards them, he only paused to scowl up at the wagon-driver and mutter "Just a minute".

As he approached, it seemed to Hunith that he blotted out the sun, black shadows concealing his face and rendering him an anonymous silhouette. She strained her eyes to look at him, a silent wish skimming across her features as she gazed up at the glittering halo that surrounded him. He squatted down beside her and it was gone. With a gentleness that belied his strength, he laid a hand as big as a dinner plate on her shoulder and looked into her eyes. Slowly, reluctantly, Hunith released her son into his arms. Without a backward glance, he rose and paced off towards Hunith's cottage. Momentarily stunned, her eyes followed the smith's retreating back, before she snapped to her senses and went scrambling after him.

They reached the rough-hewn door together, Hunith swinging it back on creaking hinges, mumbling anxiously. "Where can I put 'im, Hunith?"asked Ron, his brown eyes softening to radiate warmth like a lit oven. He seemed to tower over the entire room; even when he stooped to avoid the ceiling he dwarfed the tiny living area and everything in it. Looking up at him, Hunith felt like a child.

"Here, in the cot by the fire," she beckoned agitatedly, fumbling to draw back the rough-spun sheets, anxiety spurring her haste. Big Ron deposited a quietly sobbing Merlin in the little bed as gently as if he was a baby. Wearily, she reached up to place a hand on his thick elbow, "thank you," she said. Her eyes captured his in a grateful glance, "I think I can manage now." They exchanged a small smile and Ron stooped out the door, leaving Hunith feeling strangely alone.

As the door shut with an earthy thud, she hurried to her son's side, tucking the covers over his heaving chest and taking one dirty hand in her own. "Merlin?" she whispered tentatively, suddenly unsure of how to comfort her own son.

She felt his fingers tighten around her own with a frightening intensity. When his eyes found hers they were clouded with a frantic anguish that chilled her heart. Unspeakable sorrow filled his gaze, and there was a darkness there that made Hunith's skin crawl.

"Arthur."

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On the second night, he woke to find his mother darning a blanket in her rickety wooden rocking chair. Her greying hair tumbled over her shoulders in loose waves, reflecting the soft orange glow of the fire. Its soft, flickering light danced in her eyes and on the surface of the plain pewter goblet at her elbow. It was an image so characteristic of his warm, carefree childhood that he was almost able to surrender up reality to a nostalgic fantasy. But the vicious bite of his grief was not so easily stayed. Taking a deep breath of home, he sat up and stretched his sore muscles.

Noticing that he was awake, Hunith carefully put down her work and anxiously hurried over to him. She knelt down and, taking both of his hands in hers, looked up into sharp blue eyes that mirrored her own; eyes that had once blazed with love and laughter, now dull and extinguished as if smothered by the ash of loss. "He's dead?" she asked softly. Merlin nodded, swallowing hard. His mother looked down for a moment and stroked his fingers soothingly with her thumbs, calluses brushing gently over his knuckles.

"You will miss him," she said, looking back at him. It was no question. "But we all must learn to say goodbye to those we love, Merlin." Sadness and hint of denial crashed over his face, feelings as readable as ever. He turned away from her and stared over her shoulder into the fire, as if seeking some kind of solace in the flames. Hunith watched him for a moment more, before sitting up beside him and wrapping an arm around his thin waist.

"Come," she said, "You've been asleep for a day and a night, you must be hungry." Merlin shook his head, eyes still fixed intently on the fireplace. Sighing, she rose to bring a crusty round loaf and generous goblet of wine from the pantry. With food in front of him, Merlin's denial seemed to slowly dissipate and he bit eagerly into the soft bread with a mumbled thanks. A relieved smile touched her mouth as Hunith returned to her needlework, glancing watchfully back at him.

The thick, moist bread sang on Merlin's tongue as he devoured it, surprising himself with his newfound hunger. For one wayward and frantic week, the thought of eating had not even crossed his mind. Instead, despair had consumed him, absorbing every thought until nothing remained but a deadly hopelessness. Lost and alone, he had collapsed into a long-forgotten corner of his mind, feeling nothing but howling pain and a primal compulsion to walk, and keep walking until the end. Finally, he had stumbled upon the end of his road. He had found home.

Chewing almost regretfully on the last crusts, Merlin drained his cup of the velvety liquor and relaxed into the softness that was beginning to cloud his head. Suddenly, nothing really seemed to matter except the gentle buzzing of the wine and the crackling melody of the fire. It filled his mind with a comforting numbness that nearly masked the pain. Distracted, he could almost forget that he was so alone. Or maybe it wasn't forgetting, rather it was that he no longer needed to care. He only wished it could last.

Hunith looked up in surprise as Merlin roused himself from his cot and shuffled to the kitchen door. "Where are you going?"

"More wine," was the muffled reply.

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He stayed a month, falling into a lethargic routine that circulated sluggishly between sleeping, eating and steadily draining the village cellars. Occasionally he would find himself wandering through the whispering forest, or sitting silently by Will's grave. Never before had he missed his oldest friend as much as he did in those lonely, befuddled weeks. Before Arthur, there had always been Will. Now, life in Ealdor was stricken with a sleepy desolation. Without him, Merlin had nobody to share his secrets with, nobody to dream up hare-brained schemes that would send them racing across the countryside. Nobody to make him feel alive.

Ultimately, it was the idleness that was killing him. His mother was right: death was not foreign to the living. But with Arthur dead, Merlin no longer had a future to serve. Without his king, there was no reason to do anything more than exist. Slowly, certainly, Merlin's spirit was stagnating in a torpid pool of helplessness. It sucked him in like quicksand; the longer he stayed, the less he was able to save himself.

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Hunith watched her son fade away with a knotted stomach and a mother's quiet despair. Until one morning she could watch no longer.

"Merlin?" she whispered, shaking his shoulder. There was no response. "Merlin!" She tapped him brusquely on one grimy, unshaven cheek. He gave a quiet grunt but slept on. With a sigh, and only a moment's hesitation, she reached for the wash bucket at her feet and emptied it over the top of him.

Merlin thrashed and spluttered against a sleep befuddled stupor, trying to wake up, sit up and wipe his face on a dusty sleeve all at the same time. In a whirl of sweat, straw and stale wine, he landed on the floor, almost sending his mother flying (not that he noticed). Pulling his knees up to his chest and burying his head in his hands, Merlin waited for the familiar throbbing inside his skull to subside. By the time he came to his senses, Hunith was kneeling beside him with a towel and a change of clothes. Merlin stared wordlessly at his mother, pausing to let his indignation roll over her, before snatching the towel out of her hands and starting to dry himself.

Hunith stood and turned to the window so that he could dress himself. Staring out into the frosty street, she bit her lip and sighed. Not for the first time, she doubted whether what she was about to do was right. Months ago, she would have seen it as the height of neglect, but her son had fallen so far that she was hardly left with a choice. She would do what she had to, for his sake, even if it hurt them both in the meantime.

"Are you going to explain?" her son snapped from behind her. Merlin was sitting back on his soaking bed, ever-present goblet in hand, and looking as if he had every intention of staying there for the rest of the day. Hunith walked slowly to him, and put her hand on his shoulder. She could feel his cold, questioning stare, but her guilt-ridden heart wouldn't let her meet his eye. The words fought her, not wanting to pass her lips, but she forced herself to say them.

"Merlin, I've sent a message to Gaius."

Their only eyes met for a heartbeat before his eyebrows crumpled into a frown and he dropped his gaze, letting it fall on a neatly packed rucksack. It sat meekly by the doorframe next to his boots, shrouded in the misty morning light. His frown became a snarl as it dawned on him, and a thunderstorm crossed his face. Wine flew across the earthen floor like blood from a wound as Merlin dropped his goblet and shoved Hunith away. A caged animal, he strode across the room and back, filling it with his rage as he went. Returning, he stood over Hunith. "So this is how it's going to be? You're going to turn me out onto the street? My own mother?"

"Not the street, Merlin, never that!" Hunith pleaded, her eyes sparkling with desperate tears, "I just want you to go back to Camelot, you're wasting away here!"

"I'M FINE!" he roared. His mother took a step back, something like fear fluttering over her expression, just for a second. Merlin was almost taken aback by how small she seemed.

The tears were spilling over her eyelids now. "No," she whispered, "you're not."

The next thing she saw was his back, as he marched to the door. He only turned around long enough to sling the thin straps of the worn-out rucksack over his shoulder, and to fix his mother with a heartbroken glare that made her feel sick to the bone.

Then he was gone.

Even when she chased him down the street, calling his name in a tearstained sob, he did not turn back. Even when she almost caught him, and he felt her work-roughened fingers brush the shoulder of his jacket, he did not turn back. Not even when the dull crunch-crunch of her footsteps stopped, just beyond the boundary of the town did he turn and look upon her face. He might have, though, had he known that he would never get another chance.

A single salty tear fell into the dust of the Ealdor road. It was almost invisible, like the tears he would cry many years later that fell on a white silk bedsheet.


	4. Arlais

**Last chapter! Please enjoy :)**

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Merlin watched distantly as the drop of salty water began to soak into the crisp white fabric, the liquid worming its way between the fine threads of Gwen's under-sheet.

Absently, he traced a finger through the droplet, sketching half-formed images in the shining silk. Ghosts and dragons, knights, queens, sorcerers and dying kings raced around his head, whirling with a thousand half-remembered stories. Out of habit, he tried to snatch on to them, to make sense of them, but his weary consciousness could not keep up. Too exhausted to think, he let go, giving over over his mind to a comforting idleness and letting the images float softly away like the sweet smoke that still pervaded the room. The first grey streaks of the false dawn were fingering their way across the floor towards him, inching in a new day that ballooned into the bedchamber, distant birdsong slicing through the silence. The silence that had not been there before.

Merlin's head snapped up abruptly, his hand flying to Gwen's forehead. It was cool to the touch, like the fresh caress of the morning breeze. And just like that, his last best friend was gone. Once again, his mind tried to make sense of what was happening, but all he came to was a numbness that coated everything, like frost on a pale winter's morning. Nevermind, he had an eternity to find his grief. With a heavy sigh, Merlin ran his face through his hands, trying to shake off the last grasping clutches of sleep. He would need a clear head in the hours to come. Impatiently, he tapped the side of his jaw, as if trying to remember something. It must have come to him, because he breathed a soft spell and a shimmering disc rose in front of him like a mirror, blue and clear as a summer sky. "It's time," he muttered, as if to himself.

Casting the spell aside with a wave of his hand, Merlin returned his attention to Gwen's body. In death, she seemed somehow smaller, as if the magnitude of her life had been squeezed out of her. Taking her soft, wrinkled hands in his, Merlin gently folded them over her chest, clasping them just beneath the heavy golden ring that hung around her long neck. Her seal of office, the last gift she would ever receive from her long-dead husband, and the last thing Merlin would take from the woman who gave so much. Ever so gently, he untied the soft, leather cord on which it was hung, and slid the seal of Camelot into the pocket of his threadbare breeches. Merlin trailed his fingers over her narrow shoulders, pausing for a moment to flick away a tear that had fallen into her silver hair. In a fit of sentimentality, he reached up and slowly untied his neckerchief. He looked at it for a moment, face unreadable, feeling the soft, worn fabric brushing over his fingertips, before tucking it neatly in the pocket of her skirt.

"She's dead?" came the high, wavering voice from behind him, and Merlin jumped. Inwardly, he cursed himself; he should have been used to it by now. "Queen Guinevere is dead?"

For one last, lingering moment, Merlin allowed himself to gaze at the empty shell that was once his friend, before wiping his cheeks and turning to face the small, quiet shadow standing in the doorway. "Yes, Arlais" he said, his voice an exhausted monotone, dusted with just a hint of annoyance, "you must have known that's why I sent for you."

"I did" said the girl, stepping into the dim light. She looked up at him expectantly, her round face shining with pale, anxious anticipation behind soft mahogany waves of hair. Not for the first time, Merlin was stunned by how much she reminded him of _her_. Thin eyebrows rose above gentle, brown eyes that radiated all the innocence in the word, and not just a little vulnerability. Downturned, rosebud lips pursed, and high forehead creased in concern, the child's face was the splitting image of a girl he had known long, long ago.

Arlais frowned up at him, imploring. '_What now?'_ she seemed to ask. Merlin sighed again, and strode away from her to the Queen's writing desk, where a black-and-white missive already lay ready. With a golden-eyed glance, he lit the candles and began rummaging around in the shallow wooden drawer, producing an oiled leather pouch and a stick of crimson sealing wax. "You brought your cloak, and three days' supplies?"

"Yes, Emrys," said the girl, biting her lip. Merlin could tell she was holding back a hundred questions, but if there was one thing he had taught her, it was how to bide her time. With an inward twinge of satisfaction, he thought that she would be well served in the political storm that was to come.

"Good, come here," he said, pulling the royal seal from his pocket and pressing it firmly into the soft, warm wax. Arlais approached warily, but by now Merlin was sure she understood what was coming. Wrapping both the seal and the scroll tightly in the leather pouch, he placed the unassuming package into her small hands, painfully aware that he was handing the future of a kingdom, his kingdom, to a child. "I want you to take this to Arthur's cousin, Constantine."

Solemnly, the girl gazed at what was in her hands, and her frown deepened. She knew what it was, knew that taking it meant that she had to guard it with her life. "Where will I find him?" she asked, swallowing.

"You'll know where to look," said Merlin softly, reaching out to grasp a thin shoulder. Arlais' eyes snapped upwards, and she searched his face carefully. Merlin watched as the weight of his task seemed to press down on her, and for a split second he was afraid she would refuse. But then something in her bright, young mind clicked into place and with an almost imperceptible nod, she tucked the oiled parcel into the inside of her cloak. Safe and out of sight.

Despite the mournful circumstances, Merlin smiled back at his protégé; his first true smile in many weeks. He knew she would not fail him. Rising from the desk, he turned to the window, looking out upon the courtyard, where the working day was just beginning to send servants scurrying across the cold, grey flagstones. To them, the palace would appear an indestructible and immovable fortress, the heartstone of Camelot itself. Little did they know that the Heart of Camelot was lying cold in her bed, high above them. But the news would soon reach them. It would spread like a disease, far across the land and beyond the safe borders of the Kingdom. Time was running out.

"I've arranged for a horse to meet you at the East Gate. You had better hurry, you must find Constantine within the week if Camelot is to avoid a war of succession." Merlin kept his eyes fixed on the courtyard. He wasn't sure if he could face another goodbye that morning.

Arlais was unmoving. "You're leaving too," she said, shocked realisation colouring her voice, "where will you go?"

Merlin swallowed, closing his eyes. "To wait," he said, only just loud enough for her to hear.

There was a lingering silence, broken only by the echoing noises of the wakening castle and the distant warbling of birdsong. Merlin even started to think that she had gone.

"Emrys?" She hadn't.

With a deep sigh, he turned to face her, and his breath caught. Two silver tracks ran smoothly down her face, ending in dark, wet patches on the collar of her green travelling cloak. Before he had time to react, she crashed into him, hugging him around the waist with all her strength. Mildly taken aback, Merlin stroked her long, knotted hair as wet patches seeped across his shirt from where her face was buried.

"Shh," he tried to soothe her, "don't be afraid." Against his chest, he felt her shake her head. "Arlais, you are powerful beyond what you know, it is your enemies that should be afraid."

"I'm not afraid for myself," she mumbled, pulling away from him and shaking her head again. "I just…." she wiped her eyes fiercely, as if angry with herself, then looked straight up at Merlin, fixing him with her gentle brown eyes. "Good luck, Emrys," she whispered.

A tiny smile twitched at Merlin's lips, he nodded, and gently pulled up the cowl of her cloak to hide her face. For a moment, his fingers lingered at her collar, where a dark, swirling tattoo lay half-obscured on the side of her neck. "Good luck, my child."

She pulled away from him, taking up her woven satchel, and just like the rest of them, she was gone.

Merlin cast another, fleeting glance out into the courtyard, which was quickly filling with the grey light of dawn, before snatching up his heavy travelling cloak and marching out the door.

* * *

The lower town was a hive of activity, despite the early hour. On any other day, Merlin would have been stopped by dozens, inviting him to join them for a bowl of porridge, or enticing him to buy their goods. But today he kept his hood lowered, and rode through the narrow streets with an air of lonely melancholy that discouraged any kind of delay. A flurry of memories assaulted him, brought on by a cocktail of familiar sounds and smells. The town cloistered a lifetime of stories, and each clamoured to be heard above the others, as if they knew that this was their last chance to be told. There was the tavern, where he had spent so many evenings drinking and joking with the knights, and there was the bustling marketplace, where he had wreaked havoc in his younger days. Merlin almost stopped outside the tiny workshop where, for the first time, he had been brained by the young Arthur Pendragon. But this morning there was no time for stopping or stories.

When, after what seemed like forever, he reached the city gates, he opened them effortlessly with a flick of his wrist. The bewildered guard ran shouting towards him, stumbling sleepily over his crimson tunic. But before the man got close enough to identify him, Merlin already had his mare through the sturdy, oaken doors. With a crash, they closed behind him in a whirl of dust.

Outside the walls of Camelot, the golden dawn was in full bloom, misty sunbeams streaming through the trees. Fresh air filled his lungs and the gentle orange heat warmed his tired face. It would have been a beautiful morning if it had not been so empty. Once again, Merlin let his mind slide into a numb oblivion as his horse climbed steadily up the first rolling, green hill. Nothing existed to him but the soft clop-clop of his horse's hooves on the white dirt road, and time seemed to come to a rhythmic standstill. But when he finally reached the summit, he stopped.

In the long, grey shadows of the morning, the city appeared half asleep, in a blissful cocoon of unknowing. Merlin could see them all still, rousing themselves to begin what they thought was just another day. But all that was about to change. None of their lives would ever be the same. Even as Merlin watched, the first mournful notes of a warning bell drifted up the road towards him. It spoke no words, but its message could only mean one thing: the Queen was dead.

_And so it begins_. With a final, resigned sigh, he turned to face the long, meandering road before him. Then, clicking softly to his horse, he took his first lonely step into eternity.


End file.
